


As Breathing

by Squintern



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: -waves hands-, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dubious Science, M/M, Sci-Fi Elements, i am once again asking you to suspend reality, its for plot reasons!, look away from the neuroscience!, no beta we dont die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:40:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28990137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squintern/pseuds/Squintern
Summary: Nicky stops himself from pulling Joe back in, drinking in every last second of this morning. But he can’t let Joe know what’s coming.---Wherein Nicky and Joe work for competing private intelligence companies. But only one of them knows that.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 88
Kudos: 227





	1. Endings

**Author's Note:**

> Hi welcome back to Hurt Nicky Hours where we hurt Nicky. I don't know why. Believe me, I'm not happy about it either. But I wrote this in three days after seeing the costume tests and getting irrationally obsessed with what Joe's necklace might be. And honestly, I stand by this. I'm really proud of it. So here we are.

The calendar in Joe’s kitchen reads April. It’s April. It is April and Nicky is standing in Joe’s kitchen in one of Joe’s shirts, only his shirt, and holding the milk for Joe’s coffee and just staring, staring, _staring_ at the stupid sexy firemen calendar stuck up on the fridge. It’s _April_.

“Where’s my coffee?” Joe calls. Nicky means to move, to say something back, but he’s frozen. Just staring. “Nicky?” The bed creaks and then Joe’s footsteps pad through the living room toward him.

“Nicky?” Joe asks, right at his elbow, full of concern now. Nicky tears his gaze from the calendar.

“It’s April,” he says dumbly. Joe takes the milk from him and pries his fingers from the handle of the fridge to close it.

“Yes,” Joe says. He’s worried and Nicky is giving too much away, but he’s stuck on _April_. “Is something happening in April? Did you miss some important deadline in March? Nicky what is it?” Nicky shakes his head and sits heavily.

“It’s just,” he says slowly, “it’s surprising, is all.” Joe frowns, pulling out the chair next to him. He takes Nicky’s hand between both of his.

“It looks like it’s more than surprising,” he says. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Nicky chokes on a hysterical laugh because it’s _April_ and he’s still here. He very well may be the ghost soon if he doesn’t get his shit together.

“I just wasn’t expecting it,” Nicky says. “It’s been…” He pauses to count but Joe beats him to it.

“It’s been ten months,” he says. His eyes are concerned still, but underneath that they’re warm and sweet and happy. Nicky nods and swallows.

“Ten months,” he echoes. Joe smiles a little.

“Nearly a year,” he says. And Nicky should be happy, too, at the very least he should pretend to be. But his stomach is dropping out and the walls of the apartment suddenly seem to be collapsing inward and Nicky swears he can feel their eyes on him and he _knows_ they’re going to see this.

“Nearly a year,” Nicky whispers, a broken record. Joe’s face crumples, worry winning out, and Nicky hates that that light is extinguished.

“Nicky, hey, breathe,” Joe says. “Breathe with me.” He brings Nicky’s hand to his chest so Nicky can feel the rise and fall of his steady breathing. His own is ragged, already coming in pants. What is _happening_?

It’s fucking April. He’s been in this for ten months. Nearly a fucking _year_. He shouldn’t still be here. He had what they needed, he had it months ago. He should have turned it in like he was supposed to and let the clean up team sweep in. But here he is. Ten months in and withholding the information they need for… what?

Joe squeezes his hand and continues to breathe slowly. He leans in to rest his forehead against Nicky’s temple.

_Oh, right._

Nicky wrestles his breathing back into something steady. His heart still thunders in his chest, a reaction he hasn’t ever been able to train away. (He’s absolute shit at lie detector tests, it’s a good reason to learn not to get caught.) He curls his fingers against Joe’s skin and reaches up his other hand to scratch along his scalp like Joe is the one who needs comfort.

“I’m okay,” he says. “It’s okay.” Joe leans back to look at him, doubt etched in the familiar lines of his face.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “You don’t have to be okay. You know that right? I’m not going to keep you here if you want to go. If this is too much…” Nicky shakes his head quickly.

“No, no,” he says. “No it’s not. Just unexpected, is all.” He tries to smile and he knows it’s weak because Joe’s expression doesn’t change.

“I mean it,” Joe says softly, like his heart is already breaking. Nicky’s throat closes up. He nods.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. Joe relaxes slightly and kisses his temple. Nicky stands to finish getting their coffee. He blinks away the tears when his back is turned. He’s always been such a good fucking liar.

He hears Joe get up and come to stand close behind him. Nicky leans back into his chest automatically, easy as breathing, and wonders when that happened. Joe’s arms circle his waist and he presses his face into Nicky’s neck. Nicky feels grounded. Out of the corner of his eye he can still see April (the fireman is holding a hose that is not spraying nearly enough water up over his head, his chest is glistening and it’s definitely been touched up to make those droplets really shine like that). His time is up, but he savors this moment. It’ll be the last time he gets to have this.

“I’m going to wash my face,” Nicky says, turning in Joe’s arms to pass him both mugs of coffee. Joe nods and kisses his forehead.

“Tell me if you’re going to bolt on me, yes?” he asks. Nicky smiles. It’s believable this time. Joe smiles back.

“Promise,” he says. His heartbeat is still too fast, but he can blame that on Joe’s very naked body in such close proximity to his own. Joe takes the coffee and kisses Nicky, short and sweet. Nicky stops himself from pulling Joe back in, drinking in every last second of this morning. But he can’t let Joe know what’s coming. So he lets him go back to the bedroom, grabs his watch from the side table where he left it last night, and locks himself in the bathroom. He turns on the taps and sends off the three words he should’ve sent months ago _._

_Ready for extraction._

* * *

Photographer had been the easiest career to lie about. Nicky had dabbled in it before, picking it up on and off as a hobby in whatever downtime Andy ordered him to take between missions. He’s by no means a professional, but he can pass for skilled in the right moments, and the staging team placed prints around his apartment that looked good enough to pass off the career choice, but not so good that he should be winning awards. Joe bought it easily and Nicky takes every advantage of it now.

If he finds it strange that Nicky’s taking so many pictures this particular morning, he doesn’t comment. Nicky grabbed his camera on the way to the bedroom and mumbled something about the light and Joe had just smiled and held still. It’s a stupid idea, really, because every single piece of equipment he had will be taken when they pick him up and combed over for bugs before being systematically destroyed. He won’t be able to keep these pictures. But he takes them anyway, hoping at least one will be good enough to linger as bright memory when all of this is over.

There’s more he needs to be doing. It’s been _ten months_ . His things are irrevocably mixed with Joe’s. Books and clothes and little pieces of his fake life that protocol dictates he gather together so clean up is as quick as possible. He doesn’t, though. He takes pictures of Joe until Joe pulls him down onto the bed and takes the camera from his hands and kisses him. He savors it now, as Joe licks into his mouth and cages Nicky beneath his body. Joe’s eyes are full of elation and Nicky’s heart breaks. He hides it behind another kiss and wandering hands and he’s certainly never had to fake _this_ part.

He should have listened to Andy. He knows he should have, he knew when she said it he should have. He promised her, lied to her face as thoroughly as he’s lying now. _I have it under control._ He doesn’t feel in control now. Not now when he’s flying apart under Joe’s hands, clutching him just a little too tightly for a midweek morning tumble. Joe doesn’t say anything, though, just presses his lips under Nicky’s ear and pulls him closer and lets him leave little crescent marks on his shoulders. They’ll still be there after Nicky’s gone and he’s viciously glad. Let Joe remember how this felt, let him remember how _good_ they were at this.

They share a shower after and Nicky sucks Joe off until his jaw is aching, until Joe pounds his fist on the shower wall and comes down Nicky’s throat, groaning like it’s being ripped out of him. Nicky commits the sight, the sound, the taste to memory. Joe turns him around and pushes him up against the opposite wall as soon as he stands and gets his tongue in Nicky until he’s shaking with it. They used to joke often about finding each other sooner, being younger, being able to go more than a couple times at best, being able to spend entire days in bed. Never more than right now has Nicky wished they had.

His chip pings a location as Joe’s making breakfast. The extraction team is ready. He has three hours before there’s a sniper trained on Joe and his team comes to forcibly remove him. They’re not taking any chances on this. Nicky wants to drag Joe back to bed, read to him a little or maybe coax Joe into reciting one of his own poems before he has to go. He wants to leave Joe with something happy, as if it’ll make up for what he’s about to do. Instead, they linger over breakfast. Joe makes him laugh and Nicky wipes away tears. The joke wasn’t that funny. Joe rests a hand on his leg and Nicky goes cold everywhere except that single point of contact.

He makes his excuses with time to spare. Joe whines and complains, but Nicky looks him in the eye and promises he’ll be back by dinner. He gathers his camera, the first book he can see that he’s sure is his own, and his own tech. Joe very purposefully spreads himself out over the sheets and Nicky takes his time appreciating the view before he finally finishes getting dressed. He doesn’t dare set foot in Joe’s studio, no matter how much he wants to see his painting again. He knows he might leave with it and that will be too conspicuous. If things go to plan, Joe won’t know for at least a day. Nicky will be long gone by then.

“I’ll see you later,” Nicky calls, because it would be strange to leave without a last word of goodbye (because he _wants_ to say goodbye, however he can). He hopes Joe can’t hear the misery in his voice.

“Pick up some more milk, would you?” Joe calls back. It hurts to know Nicky can hide it so well. “Love you!” He nearly turns back. One last look, one last kiss, one last bright, perfect smile. But he knows if he doesn’t leave now, he might not leave at all.

“Love you, too,” he says instead. And he means it. For the first time today he’s not lying. He wants Joe to know he means it. It’s the last time he’ll ever say it, he wants it to count for something.

By some miracle, his eyes are no longer red by the time he reaches his extraction point.

* * *

“Why now?” Andy asks when Nicky arrives at the safe house. Nicky hands off his phone and his watch and tries to ignore the seven messages he already got from Joe. He’ll never get a chance to read them.

Nicky doesn’t respond as he follows her down the hall, because she knows. She knew at the two month mark, when Nicky already had what they needed but told her he was staying. She knew at the four month mark, the six month mark, the eight month mark. She was the one who looked him in the eye and told him not to get in too deep. So she knows why now, and she knows why not before. She looks over her shoulder at him. Her face is severe, but Nicky’s known her long enough to see something sympathetic in her eyes.

Nile is waiting with the rest of her tech team in the main room. Nicky’s hand clenches around the papers in his pocket. He forces himself to release them before his sweat smears the pencil. He takes a seat at the table across from Andy and breathes deeply.

“How was the extraction?” Andy asks. It’s protocol, he reminds himself, it’s just protocol.

“I sent word around 0930, then went back to the target to eliminate suspicion,” he says. He’s cool and collected, just like Andy trained him, but he swears his heart is beating so hard you could see his pulse under his skin. “We spent some time together while I waited to hear from the extraction team.” Andy cuts a sharp glance to the tech who coughed pointedly and Nile hustles him from the room.

“Keep going,” Andy says.

“The team pinged me around,” he pauses to think, the minutes blurring together, “1100 hours. I acted as I normally would have and left the target’s apartment at 1230. I made my way to the extraction point unimpeded and the extraction team brought me here.”

“You’re sure the target is unsuspecting?” Andy asks. Nicky meets her eye.

“I’m sure,” he says. It’s the second time today he isn’t lying. Andy nods to Nile.

Nile steps forward and Nicky reaches into his pocket. He has two images, just to be certain. A picture and an impression. The picture he had by the one month mark. He and Joe spent the night together and Nicky snapped a picture of his necklace in the morning before he woke up. He’d patted himself on the back and let Andy know he had a picture, then flopped back down and when Joe woke up later Nicky had graciously allowed him to ride him into the mattress. When he’d been alone, Nicky had printed the picture and stared at it for a long time and then called Andy to tell her he was wrong.

The impression came later, much later. With Joe sprawled across his bed, arms tucked up under the pillow as he drifted in and out of a doze, Nicky spread out perpendicular to him with his head propped against Joe’s ribs, reading passages from a book he can’t even recall the name of now. Nicky had turned over and seen it lying there, unassuming and glinting in the sunlight, and he’d picked it up to get a proper look. Joe had smiled, spun some lie Nicky wasn’t listening to, and just let him look, let him trace the lines of the etching for as long as he wanted. He didn’t move when Nicky reached over to get his sketchbook and pencil. He didn’t even blink when Nicky scrubbed the edge of the pencil over the paper, lifting the symbols and letters on to the page. Nicky had ripped the paper out and folded it over carefully to preserve the impression and told Joe that he wanted a reminder of the day. Joe had smiled even wider and pulled him up to kiss him.

They’re both more than enough.

“You’re sure about this?” Nile asks. Nicky nods. She takes both papers and Nicky feels like he’s lost a limb. Andy stands before Nile even sits to put in the key.

“Go get ready to leave,” Andy tells him. “Your flight needs to be in the air before they know anything.” Nicky stands and gets out of the room the moment she finishes speaking. He doesn’t want to watch.

The living quarters are straight across the main foyer. It feels like an endless abyss. The tech Nile sent out is speaking with one of the clean up crew. They watch Nicky openly. Everyone knows. That’s the point of the chip, after all, to store up all the information he takes in and spit it back into their servers when he sits for his upload. They did an upload on the way to the safehouse, the past few hours of his day are public access for anyone with high enough security clearance. And the clean up crews love to gossip. There’s more than enough pictures on Nicky’s phone and cameras for them to talk about.

The others watch him, too, if not so conspicuously. He’s always been known. Andy’s right hand, her top pick, her best, her favorite. Nicolò DiGenova: scooped up at 18 straight from the foster home and Implanted by 23, the youngest field agent in their organization. Andy trained him herself, from the very first day she showed up at the bus stop where he was loitering and offered to buy him lunch. It’s worse now. It’s worse because now he’s Nicolò DiGenova: the top agent who took _ten months_ to gather one piece of information and has a case file full of sun-drenched images of his most hated rival.

* * *

Nicky scrubs himself raw, over and over until his skin is red and stinging. He can still feel Joe’s touch. There’s a purpling bruise high on his neck. This morning he’d been desperate for the marks, the reminders that this all happened. Now he just wants it gone. He knows it’s only been hours since he woke up, completely unaware of the passage of time, so safely bundled away from the world in Joe’s arms. When he finally steps out of the shower, that feels like a lifetime ago.

He pulls on fresh, company-issue clothes. His own apartment, his actual apartment, is being watched in case someone from Joe’s company tracks him down. No chances, no loose ends. He’d been stupid enough to use his real name. Andy had told him that it might be close to a year before he’d be able to live there again. Nicky had shrugged, never married to a place and not caring to call anywhere home. He craves something familiar now, though. Even something as simple as clothes he washed with his preferred laundry detergent.

Andy is waiting in his room. She turns when he comes in and it’s his friend he sees staring back at him. Neither of them need to hide anything right now.

“It worked,” she says, like it might make Nicky feel better. His knees give out and he sits heavily on the bed. She comes over and sits next to him, leaning into his side.

“You could’ve pulled me out,” he says.

“I could’ve,” she agrees. “I should’ve.” Nicky doesn’t say anything to that. It’s not her fault, after all.

“I should’ve left,” he says. She doesn’t say anything to that.

They sit there for a long time. Nicky thinks he might doze off against her shoulder. The tears don’t come, though. His head is aching and he realizes he hasn’t eaten since breakfast. He’s not hungry, but Andy’s brought him a bottle of water. He reaches for it and she opens it and hands it over. She puts a hand on his leg.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she says quietly, “but when did it become real?” Nicky lowers the water bottle. He doesn’t say anything. Her cheek brushes his hair as she nods. She squeezes his thigh and he lifts his head from her shoulder.

She stands and stretches. Outside, the sun is beginning to set. She turns to him and cups his chin, brushing her thumb over his birthmark. He can’t bring himself to meet her eye. She leans down anyway and presses a kiss to his forehead. She goes to say something else when someone knocks on the door. Andy strides over and opens it, blocking Nicky with her body. He straightens anyway and wipes at his eyes just in case.

“There was a three-level confirmation on the encryption key,” one of Nile’s techs says. “We broke the first two, but Nile thinks there’s a specific set of steps Al-Kaysani would have had to go through if he ever used the key. We still have access, but they know. They’re actively moving to keep us out right now.” Andy glances back at Nicky. He nods.

“Top priority information first,” Andy says. “Start getting ready to leave this location, we’ll regroup at HQ. Make sure Nicky’s transport is ready in the next hour. Al-Kaysani’s got to be prepping for an upload right now, we need to get Nicky out ASAP.” The tech’s footsteps disappear down the hall. Andy looks at Nicky one more time, then follows.

* * *

_Meet me. I just want to talk._

There’s a string of coordinates just below the words. The number is unlisted, but Nicky doesn’t have to guess who it’s from. He’s supposed to be boarding his plane in minutes. There’s a team of guards surrounding him and he has no idea how Joe already got his new number. But then again, Joe is the best. It’s almost pointed that he texts Nicky, a reminder that they’re considered equals in this business. Nicky should alert his guards, pull his own weapon and prepare for a fight. Because if Joe has his number, he has his location. Nicky doesn’t do either of those things.

Instead he slips away. He slips away alone, takes only his standard weapons because there’s stupid and then there’s _stupid_ , leaves his tech and travel gear. It’s almost too easy. He’s not sure if Andy would be proud of him or disappointed in the entire team who were supposed to have eyes on him at all times. It doesn’t matter though. He’ll think about the fallout later. Now, he focuses on the risk he’s so willing to take because he can never deny Joe anything.

He’d considered the possibility of a team following him. Because the smart thing would be to set a trap, to bring Nicky to the location alone and outnumber him. It’s certainly what his team will think when they track him down. But Nicky knows Joe. He knows that right now, Joe isn’t thinking smart. He isn’t thinking with his head. And for all that trust is such a hard thing to come by in their line of work, Nicky somehow stumbled into trusting Joe. If Joe says he just wants to talk, then he’ll be alone as well. Nicky trusts that. 

Joe is already there waiting when Nicky arrives. He looks nothing like the man Nicky left in bed, carefree and happy and warm in the mid-spring sun. He’s standing straight backed and at attention, watching in case Nicky isn’t alone. The set of his shoulders is all wrong, his stance too still. Nicky has seen him in his quiet moments, always in perpetual motion, tapping out a rhythm on his paintbrush between strokes, bobbing his head to the song on the radio while he drives, tearing at the edges of his napkin while he listens to Nicky rant about the atrocities of _Olive Garden_ as they eat dinner. This is Yusuf Al-Kaysani: top agent at Nicky’s company’s biggest competitor. This is the Yusuf Al-Kaysani Nicky was supposed to meet, trick, and betray. Nicky hates him.

Joe motions to the empty table at the center of the room, then slowly takes his gun from his hip and lays it down. Nicky approaches with his hands up. When he’s close enough he does the same. They watch each other as they disarm themselves. Nicky lays out his knives, all three of them, even the one hidden in his boot, and the small pistol he keeps strapped to his ankle. Every piece of Joe’s equipment is a mirror of his own, standard company-issued weaponry they all carry. Somehow it’s worse to know that their rival companies use the same weapons supplier. He doesn’t meet Joe’s eye when he finishes.

“What have you done?” Joe asks. His voice is quiet, but it echoes in Nicky’s skull.

“My job,” Nicky replies, because it’s the only truth he can face right now. He needs every minute of his training to keep his voice steady.

“Your job?” And Joe’s shouting suddenly, unable to hold back. Nicky flinches. “Your _job_. Using me and baiting me and making me fall in love with you, that was your job?” Nicky says nothing, his eyes fixed on a point just past Joe’s left ear. Joe takes a breath. His voice drops again, deadly calm when he continues, “They did all say you were the best. Well, pat yourself on the back, you’ve done spectacularly, Nicky. A job well done, really. If only it hadn’t led to this, right?”

“It was easy,” Nicky says and he wants to take his own gun and put it in his mouth. By the look of it, Joe wants to as well. “You made it easy.” He steels himself and goes on, dredging up that old remorselessness that got him a position at Andy’s right hand.

“I didn’t even have to try, really. I could’ve handed over the key anytime, couldn’t I, with how quickly we ended up fucking. But it was _fun_. To play with you, make you think I cared about you. I dragged it out just to see how long it would be before you realized I never--” and he falters. Because he had meant it when he said the words and there’s no part of him that can take them back. He swallows and finishes, “I never gave a shit about any of it. Never gave a shit about you.”

It’s better this way, he tells himself. Better if they’re angry, better if Joe thinks every bit of it is a lie. If it ends in a fight and only one of them walks out, so be it. Nicky has already resigned himself to being the one left behind. Joe will at least get to keep his job. An oppressive silence fills the space between them.

“So why now?” Joe finally asks. “You know I had no idea. Why now?” And Nicky truly has no good answer, not one that goes with the character he’s playing. Not one that won’t give everything away. Joe steps closer to him.

“Look at me,” Joe says. Nicky doesn’t move. “Nicky, look at me.” His eyes flicker to Joe’s just briefly (because he can never deny Joe _anything_ ). Just one last look, he tells himself. But they hold. “Tell me the truth. Why now?”

“I got bored,” Nicky says. His voice is steady and his eyes never waver. He’s _always_ been such a good fucking liar.

“I don’t believe you,” Joe says. They know each other too well at this point. His face is shuttered and guarded, but everything Nicky didn’t want to see is there in his eyes, all the heartbreak and betrayal and wretched shock. Nicky doesn’t know what Joe sees in his own.

“I’m sure you won’t believe anything I say at this point,” Nicky says. “I’ve always been the better liar.” The corner Joe’s jaw ticks and he turns sharply on his heel so he doesn’t have to look at him. Nicky is relieved to be released from his stare, but the pain rushes up to drown him.

“You’re right,” Joe says unnecessarily. “You lied to me successfully for months, for almost a _year_ . I’ll never know what was fake and what wasn’t. And all for this.” He holds the pendant of his necklace over his shoulder as if Nicky doesn’t know exactly what he’s talking about. Nicky bites back the apology on his tongue. It’s _better_ this way.

Joe turns back. His eyes are cold, blank and empty of emotion. Nicky has seen them flicker with irritation, burn with anger, and shine with absolute fury. He has never seen them like this. Joe walks to the table, his steps quick and measured and Nicky twitches for his own weapons. He stops himself, but Joe sees it. It’s not a gun that Joe moves for, though, no matter how much Nicky deserves it.

He reaches around to the back of his neck and unclasps the necklace. His hands are as steady as Nicky’s lies as he places it on the table between them. He doesn’t take his eyes off Nicky.

“I was going to leave,” he says. His voice is just as cold and emotionless as his eyes. It hurts more, pierces deeper, than any gunshot. “We all know what happens when it comes out. I knew I would have absolutely no memory of you, no memory of _us_. But it would have been worth it to learn it all again. I was so sure that nothing could make me stop loving you. Not even forgetting your very existence.” Nicky closes his eyes.

He doesn’t want to see Joe like this. Joe, who is full of life and warmth and happiness. This is not the last memory he wants of the man. Like a surrender, his character breaks, his control _breaks_. The tears he had been holding back wind down his cheeks. He doesn’t move to wipe them away.

“I’m sorry,” Nicky whispers. It’s nothing. It’s words, just words. Because there is no fixing what he’s broken.

“I wish I believed you,” Joe says. And his voice is heavy with emotion again, like he can let it out because Nicky is hiding. Nicky keeps his eyes closed. Whatever happens, happens.

Joe doesn’t move right away. But eventually Nicky hears him rearming himself. There’s no click of a safety, no sharp sound of a drawn blade. There’s a rustle of clothing, then quiet. Joe’s still breathing, too close for Nicky to relax, but so very far away.

“Maybe it’s best if I do forget you,” he finally says. Nicky barely manages to keep his sob from escaping. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t hear when Joe moves closer, but there’s a warm breath on his cheek in less than a heartbeat.

“ _Nicolò._ ” And it hurts, it _hurts_ . Every cell in his body is screaming for this man but he can’t reach out. He’s lost that privilege. “Say my name.” Nicky squeezes his eyes shut, his breath hitching. But he can _never_ deny Joe anything.

“Yusuf,” he whispers. And Joe breathes out all at once, shivery and brimming with pain. Nicky did that to him. Then he’s gone, his life and warmth and happiness, gone.

Nicky doesn’t open his eyes until he’s sure Joe is far away. When he does he sees the necklace, still lying unassuming and glinting in the center of the table. His hands shake as he picks it up. It’s gone cold by now. Slowly, Nicky loops the chain around his own neck and tucks the pendant under his clothes. It stings when it touches the skin of his chest, or maybe that’s just his imagination.


	2. Aftershocks

Nicky isn’t sure Nile actually sleeps. Whenever he’s awake, so is she, no matter what time it is, and she’s working. Nicky asked her once if she did it to prove how indispensable she was. She’d laughed, not unkindly, and said that it was simply because she loved her job. He can respect that. And he’s grateful for it now as he finds her alone in her office, only illuminated by a small desk lamp and the glow of her screens. She looks up when he comes in.

They both know what he’s here for.

“Can I see it?” Nicky asks anyway.

“Is that a good idea?” she asks. They both know it’s not. But she still stands and Nicky comes around to take her place in front of the monitors.

“I’ve personally been first eyes on every minute of your uploads,” Nile says. Of course she has. She and Nicky are Andy’s personal mentees and that builds something much deeper than solidarity between them. She navigates to his mission logs in the server and types in her password. “I locked down all the ...you know. Only Andy can see those parts. I can’t really lock her out of anything.”

“It’s alright,” Nicky murmurs. “Those aren’t the important parts anyway.” Nile pulls up the video files, neatly organized and dated, separated by month. Ten months looks very short like this.

“There’s, uh, one part that I… only Andy and you,” she says. And Nicky knows  _ exactly  _ which part it is, down to the fucking minute. He almost wants to skip right to it, watch it on loop, but he also wants to see as much as he can and he hasn’t got long until Nile’s team comes back in for the morning shift.

“Thank you, Nile” he says, full of feeling. Nile puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes, just this side of too hard, just like Nicky needs. He is so incredibly grateful for Nile.

She leaves him be, closes the door behind herself and goes to work at the center terminal in the main bullpen. Her back faces the office completely. It’s the most privacy she can offer him. Nicky opens the first month.

Case4256A-0604-0930

_ “Al-Kaysani keeps the key on him at all times. We don’t know what it is, but all the information we could gather points to it being physically attached to his person 24/7. This key should work to decrypt their entire server. Full access, whenever we want,” Andy says. “You are to find that encryption key, however you can, and bring it directly to me.” Nicky’s head bobs once. _

_ “Yes, Boss,” he says. Andy nods back. _

_ “Staging team has set up an apartment for you, and recon has a full report on Al-Kaysani’s daily movements and routines. We’ll do a maintenance check on your chip before you leave, then you’re on your own. I’ll check in when I think it’s necessary. You are to only reach out to us when you have what we need and are ready for extraction,” she says. _

_ “Yes, Boss,” Nicky repeats. Andy nods for him to go and Nicky stands and follows Nile to collect his tech. _

_ “You sure you can handle this?” Nile asks. “You’ve certainly had some choice words about Al-Kaysani in the past. You know, for never having met him.” _

_ “Just because I think he’s a bastard doesn’t mean I can’t seduce him,” Nicky says. “I’ve fucked plenty of bastards.” Nile makes a face. _

_ “Gross,” she says, “I did not need to know that.” Nicky shoves her shoulder a bit. _

_ “Just as long as you’re sure you’re sending me after the right guy,” Nicky says as they get to her office. “It’d be pretty awkward if you got me mixed up with some poor soul also named Yusuf Al-Kaysani who doesn’t even work in the intelligence sector.” _

_ “Oh ha ha,” Nile says, “suddenly you doubt me? I’m telling Andy.” She holds Nicky’s phone, watch, and computer away until he puts both hands up in surrender. _

_ “Nile you are the smartest, most talented person I’ve ever met and I would never doubt you,” Nicky says. Nile passes him his tech with a smug grin. _

_ “That’s right,” she says. Nicky shakes his head a little and leans over to kiss Nile’s cheek. _

_ “See you on the other side,” he calls as he heads out. _

Case4256A-0613-0913

_ “Sorry.” His voice sounds nervous and apologetic. “Is this seat taken?” Yusuf Al-Kaysani looks up and smiles. _

_ “No, please,” he says, “go ahead.” Nicky sits and puts his coffee and book on the table. Al-Kaysani cranes his neck to read the title. _

_ “Do you like that?” Al-Kaysani asks, indicating. _

_ “Oh, so far?” Nicky says. “It’s alright. I’m not sure I’m totally sold yet.” _

_ “How far in are you?”  _

_ “Coming up on half way.” Al-Kaysani nods and sips his coffee. _

_ “It took me until the second to last chapter to feel like there was any pay off,” he says. “I almost gave up on it a few times.” Nicky picks up the book and opens to his marked page. _

_ “No spoilers,” he says. Al-Kaysani grins and waves a hand. Nicky goes back to reading. _

_ He’s not actually taking in what’s on the page, he’s barely looking at the book at all. Instead, Nicky’s taking in the rest of the cafe patrons, making note of anyone who might be doing the same as him, anyone who might be watching him just as carefully, anything to let him know they’ve already been had. Most of all, though, he’s taking in Al-Kaysani. Who is watching him just as carefully around the newspaper in his hands. The side of his mouth quirks up when he catches Nicky’s eye. _

_ “Joe,” he says, folding the paper and holding out a hand. Nicky puts down his book. _

_ “Nicky,” he says automatically. They shake. Joe releases his hand slowly, his fingers brushing against Nicky’s wrist. _

_ In Nicky’s ear there’s a curse, then, “Did you just give him your fucking  _ **_name_ ** _?” Nicky doesn’t even twitch. “You fucking know better, what the hell are you doing?”  _

_ “Nicky,” Joe continues, his smile turning more intimate. “I don’t know if anyone has ever told you, but you have the most incredible eyes.” _

_ “I can’t say anyone has told me,” Nicky says. “At least not within seconds of learning my name.” Joe chuckles. _

_ “Forgive me,” he says, “I’m an artist. I tend to note beautiful things, particularly ones I haven’t seen before.” _

_ “I’m not sure if that makes it more or less creepy,” Nicky replies. Joe smiles and shakes his head. _

_ “Do you always make it so difficult to flirt with you?” _

_ “Is that what this is? Here I was worried I’d just acquired a stalker.” _

_ “Yes, if you must know, I was attempting to flirt with you. But now that you’ve effectively shut down some of my best lines I guess I was mistaken in your blatant eyeing of my general person.” Nicky taps against the cover of his book. _

_ “That was some of your best work? I shudder to think what your worst sounds like,” he says. Joe looks offended, but he can’t hide the smile still playing around his mouth. _

_ “If you agree to dinner with me, I’ll ply you with my absolute worst all night,” Joe says. Nicky laughs. _

_ “Now that I’d like to see. It’s a date.” _

_ “Good.” _

_ In his ear, sounding grudgingly proud and completely unsuspecting, “Well done, Nicky.” _

Case4256A-0629-1830

_ “I’m a photographer.” _

_ “Are you any good?” _

_ “Your worst really just boils down to thinly veiled insults, doesn’t it?” Joe laughs and tops off Nicky’s wine. _

_ “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says. “I’d like to see your work sometime, if I can.” _

_ “Well now I’m rather reluctant to show you,” Nicky says, “seeing as you apparently don’t think I’m any good.” _

_ “I will be very gentle in my critique,” Joe says. “Cross my heart.” _

_ “Ask me again when the wine is gone,” Nicky says. Joe grins and refills his own glass. “What about you? Are you any good as an artist?” _

_ “I like to think I am,” Joe says. “I’m a painter. But I dabble in drawing.” _

_ “What’s your style?” _

_ “Abstract.” Nicky hides his snort in a cough. Joe raises an eyebrow. “Some sort of problem?” _

_ “Oh no, no not at all,” Nicky says quickly. “I’ve known other people who called their art abstract. It was shorthand for bad.” _

_ “And you got so snippy because I doubted your ability,” Joe says. “Hypocrite.” _

_ “So you  _ **_do_ ** _ doubt my abilities,” Nicky says. Joe steals his wine glass. _

_ “Now I do,” he says. Nicky makes a halfhearted grab for his wine. Joe pours the dregs into his own glass pointedly. At Nicky’s surprised and somewhat outraged gasp he smirks. “My absolute worst, remember?” Nicky shakes his head. _

_ “I’m not going to show you my work when I’m sober enough to remember your remarks,” Nicky says. Joe's face turns serious. _

_ “I’m not going to get you drunk,” he says. Nicky doesn’t say anything for a moment. _

_ “I figured,” he finally manages. Joe nods a little. _

_ “I’d like to see your prints,” he says, “if you’re really willing.” _

_ “Maybe on our next date,” Nicky says. The smile is back. _

Case4256A-0707-2042

_ Joe looks up from the tiny screen of Nicky’s camera. Nicky can’t tell what picture he’s stopped on, but he’s smiling. _

_ “You can tell they’re happy,” Joe says. _

_ “I would hope so, it was their wedding,” Nicky says. Joe laughs a little but shakes his head. _

_ “No, it’s not just that,” he says. “You captured something really special, something very much intangible. It’s more than the moment it’s… it’s the feeling of them together. It’s not just a moment of happiness, you managed to capture that deeper, lasting happiness.” He shakes his head again and looks back down at the photo. “I’m not making much sense. Usually I’m better with words.” _

_ “No,” Nicky says, “you are.” He scoots closer to look over Joe’s shoulder. _

_ He’s looking at Nicky’s favorite picture from Booker and Madelaine’s wedding. They’re passing each other on their way to greet guests during the cocktail hour. Their hands had brushed and they’d taken a moment to smile at each other before moving on. It had been a lucky shot. They do look happy. Joe hands Nicky back his camera. _

_ “Thank you,” he says. “You are quite good.” Nicky turns it off and sets it aside. _

_ “That’s all? Just good?” he says. _

_ “Fishing for compliments?” Joe says. “I’m not going to fall for it.” _

_ “I didn’t realize you were still working your absolute worst lines,” Nicky says. Joe grins. _

_ “And yet you’re still charmed,” he says. Nicky looks away. _

_ “So can I see your work?” he says, changing the subject. _

_ “Actually I painted that one over your shoulder,” Joe says, nodding to the painting just behind where Nicky’s sitting. Nicky gets up to look at it. _

_ He barely stops himself from touching the edge of the painting. It’s a burst of reds and oranges; deep, strong colors covering the canvas, the paint thick and built up layer by patient layer. His fingers uncurl, reaching back out to hover over the brush strokes. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Joe watching him, undisguised wonder on his face. Nicky keeps his eyes on the painting. _

_ “You can,” he whispers. Nicky reaches out again and runs his finger over the ridge of a reddish orange stroke. They’re quiet as Nicky traces the lines slowly, reverently. _

_ “You’re good,” he says eventually. It’s a little breathless. _

_ “That’s all? Just good?” And Joe’s voice is no more teasing than Nicky’s is. _

_ “Very good,” Nicky says, too earnest. Joe looks pleased, surprised like no one has ever told him that with quite as much sincerity, but pleased. _

_ “Thank you,” he says. Nicky turns to him. _

_ “Do you have any more here?” Joe’s smile lights up the room. _

Case4256A-0812-0734

_ “Nicky what are you doing,” Andy says. It’s a question and a statement. _

_ “My job,” Nicky says, steady as a rock. _

_ “You told me you had it.” _

_ “I also told you I might be wrong,” he says. “I need more time to get it. Besides, we want to be sure he’s entirely unsuspecting, right? I can stick around a little longer after I get it and make it all seem less suspicious.” _

_ “I would think it makes more sense to ghost him,” Andy says. “People do it all the time. They get what they want and then they’re gone. That’s the sort of shit I’d expect from someone who hates this guy as much as you do.” She crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow. _

_ “Let me have some fun,” Nicky says. “String him along then cut ties.” She regards him for a long minute then shakes her head. _

_ “It’s a dumb idea, but honestly I’ve kind of missed seeing you work like this. You’re such a good fucking liar, Nicky. Just don’t take too long about it.” _

_ “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Nicky says. “I just want to be sure we’ve got the key right.” _

_ “I know you do,” Andy says. “You’re ridiculously thorough. That’s why I almost put you on a clean-up crew.” _

_ “Waste of my skills, Boss,” he says, sounding offended. She swats him on the side of the head. _

_ “Get back to the apartment,” she says. “I’ll check in again later.” _

Case4256A-0927-1456

_ Nicky throws the books aside in frustration. Joe looks up from his sketch with an eyebrow raised. Nicky just huffs and crosses his arms. Joe laughs and picks up the books from the floor. _

_ “I told you, you can read it in English,” he says. _

_ “You said the translations don’t do it justice,” Nicky says. “And I did know French. Once.” _

_ “It’s okay to admit you’ve forgotten a skill,” Joe says, tapping the cover of the French-Italian dictionary. _

_ “I haven’t,” Nicky mutters petulantly. Joe pats his ankle where Nicky’s got both feet propped in his lap. Nicky lets his head fall back against the arm of the couch, glaring up at the ceiling. _

_ “And besides, I’m not going to read the damn thing in English if I can help it,” he says after a few more minutes of Joe’s pencil scratching. _

_ “You can read it in Italian, then,” Joe says, indulgent and fond. _

_ “You said,” Nicky starts again. He sounds like a whiny little shit. _

_ “I know what I said, Nicolò,” Joe says, “but I’m not forcing you.” Nicky lifts his head again to look at him. _

_ “Sorry,” he says. It comes out only somewhat sincere. Joe rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t look all that annoyed. _

_ “You’re not,” he says. “And I’m going to have to hear this again in another twenty minutes.” _

_ “You can go to your studio,” Nicky says. Joe squeezes his ankle. _

_ “Your couch is much more comfortable than my studio,” he says. _

_ Nicky looks back at the ceiling. Joe’s pencil goes back to scratching. In the corner, the baking timer clicks away. A siren passes outside the window. Nicky huffs again and picks up the books. The corner of Joe’s mouth is turned up but he doesn’t say a word as Nicky returns to reading. _

_ The timer rings and Nicky jumps up, letting the books fall back to the couch. He pulls the farinata out of the oven and sets it to cool. He turns back to the living room and pauses. Joe is relaxed on the couch, shading something in his sketchbook. The sun coming through the windows behind him lightens the curls of his hair and turns his skin golden. The heel of his right foot bounces up and down slightly as he contemplates the sketch he’s working on. Feeling Nicky’s eyes on him, he looks up. His smile is brighter than the afternoon sunshine. _

_ “Are you going to burn your tongue on it again or are you going to come back here and wait for it to cool properly?” he asks. Nicky laughs slightly. He comes back to the couch and lays back down. Joe pulls his feet back into his lap. _

_ “I’m going to teach you Italian,” Nicky declares a few minutes later after getting through a couple more pages. Joe looks up and smiles. _

_ “I’d like that,” he says, warm and honest. He squeezes Nicky’s ankle again and just smiles, smiles,  _ **_smiles_ ** _. _

Case4256A-1006-2015

_ “I don’t understand why you’re so against this!” Joe snaps. “It’s lowkey, it’s easy, and it’s a good way to get your name out there. You only do wedding and engagement shoots, you need something in the off season.” _

_ “Are you saying I can’t manage my own money? I’m so broke I won’t be able to live when there aren’t weddings to keep me sustained?” Nicky says. _

_ “You know that’s not what I’m saying,” Joe says. “Stop twisting my words.” _

_ “Stop fucking pushing this! I told you I’m not doing it. Thanks, but no thanks,” Nicky says, grabbing the paper from Joe’s hand and tossing it in the direction of the recycling bin. _

_ “Do you not think you’re good enough?” Joe asks. “Is that what this is?” _

_ “So we’re back to insulting my talents? Brilliant, I’ve been feeling almost  _ **_too_ ** _ confident recently,” Nicky says. He goes to leave the kitchen. _

_ “Nicky!” Joe practically shouts. “I’m just trying to help you further your career! I want you to be successful!” Nicky turns on him sharply. _

_ “My career is fine!” he shouts. “In case you haven’t noticed I’m 30, Joe. This has been my career for years. And if I wasn’t any good at it I wouldn’t be living comfortably on my own without a second job. Not all of us have to sell colorful scribbles for thousands of dollars to feel successful!” Joe stares at him. The branches on the tree outside scrape up against the window as the wind whistles. _

_ Joe doesn’t say a word. He brushes past Nicky and grabs his coat, pulling on his shoes without looking back. Nicky just stands there watching him. Joe slams the door on his way out. Nicky turns to pick up the paper from the floor and put it in the recycling bin. The print Joe chose to submit for the gallery show is one of the ones hanging in the hall on the way to Nicky’s bedroom. The gallery that accepted it wrote a sincere note of praise in the letter. But that print isn’t one of Nicky’s. _

_ He tosses the letter properly and contemplates his phone sitting on the counter. He picks it up after a few moments. _

_ “It’s clear we have different goals for our careers,” he mumbles to himself as he opens a new message. “I don’t think I can trust you when you go behind my back and do this, maybe I don’t want to sell that one. I can’t be with someone who thinks they know better than I do how I should run my own career. I’m a fucking fraud and that print isn’t even mine.” The last one comes out bitter. On the screen of his phone, the cursor blinks. His fingers hover over the screen, but don’t move. _

_ His front door opens again. Instinctually, Nicky reaches for the gun he usually keeps on his ankle. Of course it’s not there. He’s reaching for the knife block when Joe walks back in. _

_ “Sorry,” he says, noticing Nicky’s movement. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice is much calmer already. _

_ “It’s alright,” Nicky says. He relaxes slowly. Joe glances away from him, tucking his hands in the pockets of his coat. He takes a breath then looks back. _

_ “I was waiting for the elevator thinking about how stupid this is,” he says. “It’s not a big deal if you turn down this show. And it was wrong of me to submit your work without asking.” Nicky puts his phone down. There’s not even a pause before he speaks. _

_ “I don’t think I am good enough,” he says. “It’s been a long time since I took pictures for the fun of it, not that I don’t like what I do. I sometimes feel like I’ve lost the vision that made me want to go into photography. You’ve got nothing but vision. Sometimes I feel like a fraud next to you.” _

_ Joe shakes his head, moving across the kitchen. He pulls his hands from his jacket and cups Nicky’s face. _

_ “You’re not a fraud,” he says. “You’re so talented, Nicolò. I just want everyone else to be able to see that. But I’m proud of you, whether you do this show or not. It doesn’t matter to me.” Nicky catches one of Joe’s hands on his face. _

_ “I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “It was thoughtful of you. I shouldn’t have gotten angry and said those things.” Joe kisses his forehead. _

_ “I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have discussed it with you before just springing this on you. I know you’re happy doing photoshoots for much smaller audiences.” Nicky slides his arms around Joe’s waist and rests his head against his shoulder. Joe rocks them side to side slightly. _

_ “It’s late,” Nicky says. “We should get to bed.” Joe nods. They head to the bedroom together. _

Case4256A-1224-1736

_ “I had to teach myself to cook,” Nicky says. _

_ “Your parents were bad cooks, huh?” Joe asks, handing Nicky a knife. Nicky hesitates, he turns to the vegetables. _

_ “I wouldn’t know,” he admits. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Joe pause. _

_ “They—?” he starts. Nicky nods. “I’m sorry.” Nicky’s vision blurs a little. _

_ “Thank you,” he says, “but they died not long after I was born. I don’t remember them.” Joe takes the knife from him and lays it on the cutting board. One hand rests on his hip, not urging or expectant in any way, just steadying. Nicky leans into Joe. _

_ “Your adopted parents?” Joe asks, sounding like he already knows what the answer will be. _

_ “Never got adopted,” Nicky says. Joe’s arm winds around his waist. _

_ “Who the hell wouldn’t want you?” he asks, pressing his nose into the juncture of Nicky’s neck and shoulder. Nicky’s vision is blurring again. _

_ “I think it was just bad luck,” he says. “Other babies were picked before me.” _

_ “And people don’t want older kids…” _

_ “Right,” Nicky says. “I think I also intimidated some of the parents. Or something. My foster parents told me to be more normal in the adoption interviews.” _

_ “What’s not normal about you?” Joe demands. His other arm wraps around Nicky and they’re standing flush in Joe’s kitchen. _

_ “I guess I was too quiet,” Nicky says. Joe just holds him tightly and doesn’t say anything. _

_ “I want you,” he says after a few minutes. “You know that, right?” Nicky turns in his arms to hide his face in Joe’s neck. _

_ “Yeah,” he says, a little hoarsely. They stand there, forgetting dinner completely. The light outside the window changes and at some point Joe starts to rock them side to side. _

_ Nicky lifts his face and kisses Joe. _

Nile glances over her shoulder into the office. Nicky only notices because he’d looked up to see the sun starting to rise. She holds his eye for a moment then turns back to her work. Not much longer now. He skips January with his heart in his throat. As promised, the video file he’s looking for is locked down and Nicky types in his password before the cowardice gets the better of him.

Case4256A-0219-2113

_ “Nicky. You should call for an extraction,” Andy says seriously. She’s leaning slightly toward him. “I think you’re getting in too deep. It’s been long enough. If you don’t have it, you don’t have it. We’ll find another way. Just get out.” _

_ “I have it under control, Andy,” Nicky says, unwavering. She shakes her head. They watch each other for a long time, long enough for the expression in Andy’s eyes to look a little like pity. _

_ “Do you know how long it’s been?” she says. _

_ “I should be getting back,” is all Nicky replies. _

_ “Does he suspect?” Andy asks before he can stand. _

_ “No,” Nicky says. “He thinks I work odd hours. I told him it would be a late night today and he didn’t look surprised. Said he wouldn’t wait up.” _

_ “You know that’s not—” _

_ “Not a guarantee,” Nicky finishes. “I know. But trust me, he doesn’t know a thing.” _

Nicky glances at the clock on Nile’s desk. He needs to clear out of here before anyone else comes in, there’s enough incriminating evidence without one of the techs catching him watching over his mission footage. Technically, agents aren’t allowed to watch over their own footage, at least not without their handler present. This could get both of them in trouble, though Nicky is less worried about company consequences than the already rampant gossip about it all. He reaches out shakily and fast forwards the video. He knows the time, down to the fucking minute.

Case4256A-0219-2348

_ Joe is in his bed. _

_ Nicky stands in the doorway for almost five minutes, just watching him breathe under the blankets. It’s quiet, not even traffic noise coming in faintly. The bedside lamp is on, casting shadows over Joe. His face is turned away from it. _

_ Slowly, Joe rolls over. He blinks up at Nicky, frowns in confusion, then reaches out a hand. _

_ “Come to bed,” he mumbles sleepily. Nicky moves then. He comes over and falls onto the bed next to Joe, clothes and all, sliding their palms together. Joe rolls to press his face into Nicky’s hair. He loops his arm around Nicky’s waist and falls back into a doze. Nicky stares at the wall. _

_ It’s another few minutes before Joe plucks at Nicky’s shirt. “Long day?” he asks. He yawns and pushes himself up on an elbow. “Nicky?” _

_ “Yeah,” Nicky says softly. “Really long.” Joe kisses the space just behind his ear and noses at his hair a bit. _

_ “Then get out of these jeans and come to bed,” he says. He thumbs open the button and pushes at the fly. Nicky’s hips twitch instinctually, but he stops halfway through the movement. Joe lets out a quiet, amused huff and curls his hand around Nicky’s thigh. _

_ “If you let me get back to sleep we can do that in the morning,” he says. Nicky pushes an elbow back to catch him in the ribs. Joe laughs a little, sleep rough. _

_ “You don’t have to be awake,” Nicky says. _

_ “If you’re awake, I’m awake,” Joe murmurs. Nicky doesn’t say anything. _

_ Together they wrestle Nicky out of his jeans and shirt. He glances at the bathroom, but in the end he doesn’t move from Joe’s arms. Joe manages to drag him under the covers and bundle Nicky to his chest. His breathing evens out again and Nicky still just stares at the wall. _

_ “Yusuf, I love you,” Nicky whispers. He’s safe for a moment, everything still silent around them, then Joe pulls him in just a little more. _

_ “I love you, too, Nicolò,” he whispers back. Nicky closes his eyes. _

_ His breathing hitches in the darkness, small and helpless and wretched. Behind him, Joe’s turns deep and even and undisturbed. _

* * *

Andy gives him a month of vacation.

“Go somewhere,” she says, holding out a new passport and a company credit card. “Lay in bed all day, or fuck this out of your system. Whatever you need to forget him.” Nicky nods and takes his documentation.

“Am I going to have a shadow?” he asks. Because someone at Joe’s organization must be looking for him. Andy hesitates. It’s only because Nicky’s known her so long that he sees it at all.

“No,” she says. “I know you can take care of yourself.”

“Andy.” She looks away.

“The day after you gave us the slip,” she says, “a notification came up in their server.” Nicky sinks into a chair.

“His report was that he lost the key,” she tells him.

“They can’t have bought that,” Nicky says faintly. Because Joe was their  _ best _ . Andy shakes her head.

“I'm sure they don’t. At this point I don’t think they care.”

“What?” Nicky says.

“I expect they think we’ll clean everything up, do their dirty work. We’re not known for loose ends, after all.” Nicky stares. His pulse throbs in his throat.

“And will we?” he asks hoarsely. Andy regards him for a long moment.

“What would you do?” she asks. Nicky keeps staring at her and doesn’t say a word. She nods.

“He’s fucking smart, I’ll give him that,” Andy says. “He managed to fuck with the final upload before they took his chip out. Everything after you left the apartment is corrupted. There’s nothing to see. He’s forgotten all about you and as far as they know, you’re just the boyfriend who will never see him again.”

Nicky clutches the new passport like a lifeline. He stands slowly and his legs, somehow, support him. Nile’s got a new phone and watch for him. She touches his hand before he leaves. He gives her a ghost of a smile.

Joe had absolutely no reason to protect him. If Nicky was in his place, he would’ve made sure every agent in the company tracked down the person who infiltrated their system and taken him out. It’s the  _ smart _ thing to do. (As if it wasn’t Nicky who would have chosen Joe’s life over his own, would’ve stood in the way of an army just to speak to Joe one last time. As if it isn’t Nicky who’s prepared to gun down his own team members just to keep Joe safe. As if he loves Joe any  _ less _ .) But Joe wasn’t thinking smart.

Nicky always thought heartbreak would be more focused in his chest. This pain radiates, though. Everything hurts, so indistinguishable and thorough Nicky already can’t remember what it was like to live without it. The necklace shifts with his steps.

* * *

He goes to Genoa. The familiar smells of the city and the warmth of spring welcome him like he never left. Being back is grounding, even if he still feels hollow. He follows Andy’s orders, lays in bed for a few days and, eventually, goes out to find someone to bring back for the night.

At first, he can’t even look past finding a man with dark, curly hair and laugh lines around his eyes. They’re never right, but after enough drinks Nicky can tell himself they’re close enough. He’s always been just as good at lying to himself. But when they get to bed, the touch is all wrong, the way they feel and sound is all wrong, and Nicky claims whiskey dick three times before he goes for the other option.

He fucks anyone who  _ doesn’t  _ remind of Joe. A blond with bright green eyes who’s lived in Genoa all his life, a redheaded tourist with a thick cockney accent, a brunet from America who calls Nicky by the wrong name like he’s trying to forget someone as well. It still doesn’t feel right, but he doesn’t have to pretend they’re anything like what he lost. None of them stay after, and he’s relieved he doesn’t have to kick them out. A mutually satisfactory conclusion and then they’re cleaning perfunctorily and saying their goodbyes and Nicky is alone again.

Nearing the end of his second week, Nicky accidentally picks up a cuddler. He’s baby-faced but confident and it’s not until after they finish that Nicky begins to suspect he doesn’t just look young. He scoots up to Nicky’s side and rests his head on his chest even though Nicky’s stiff and unwelcoming. Nicky doesn’t even have time to shift away, escape into the bathroom or something, before the kid just loops an arm around his waist. He feels suffocated immediately, as if he and Joe never spent hours pressed together like this under the blankets whispering back and forth.

“Interesting necklace,” the boy says. Nicky doesn’t remember his name, he isn’t even sure he ever got it. He tenses as the kid picks up the pendant from his chest.

“Someone gave it to me,” Nicky says vaguely. His heart is hammering, though. Paranoia and something else, something he refuses to think about, course through him. He stays where he is as the kid twists it this way and that.

“What does it mean?” he asks, tracing over the engraving. Nicky shrugs. He sits up abruptly, dislodging the kid. He looks startled but unfazed. “Looks like it could be something from, like, a movie. A key or something. A secret password.” Nicky’s eyes stray to the place he hid his gun.

“I’m going to shower,” Nicky says instead of answering. He gets out of bed and cuts a look to the kid. “I need to be up early tomorrow.”

“Do you want company?” he asks, not at all picking up the hint. Or possibly intending to leave him bleeding out in the bathroom.

“No,” Nicky says shortly. Something finally seems to click and the boy scrambles up out of the bed. He looks embarrassed and offended, grabbing up his clothes and mumbling something about needing to get back to his own hotel as if he’s the one choosing to leave and not being less-than-politely kicked out. Nicky catches a few choice descriptors thrown in his general direction before the kid slams the door behind him.

Nicky retrieves his gun and showers in minutes, just enough to get clean. He does an upload, flagging the boy’s face for Nile without explanation. He moves the desk chair to a corner of the room, out of sight of the windows, and breathes through the initial tightness in his throat. By the time Nile texts him to let him know the boy isn’t any known associate of Joe’s company or any of their other competitors, Nicky’s already figured out he won’t be dying tonight. He’s forced to face that the pounding of his heart has entirely to do with who gave him the necklace. He doesn’t get any sleep that night.

He stops trying to move on. The days are passing and every sleepless night he knows he’ll need more time. But he won’t ask for it. He’ll come back to Andy like he never left, like nothing’s changed, like he’s done exactly what she asked. (Like there’s not only one way to get Joe out of his head for good. Like he doesn’t know exactly what it’ll take for him to forget.) He’s always been such a good fucking liar.

He rebuilds himself piece by piece, ignoring the ones that are missing. There’s an empty place that’s been carved open in his chest and he learns to breathe through it in the sea salt air of the one place he thinks might be home. By the end of his third week, he can smile at hotel clerk and lie, as easy as breathing, about really  _ needing  _ this vacation. The clerk checks him out and tells him not to work too hard. Nicky laughs and shakes his head and returns the sentiment.

He’s still got a week left.

* * *

Nicky watches Joe unpack his books, consulting the spines as if they weren’t boxed up in a specific order so he wouldn’t have to think when he put them back in the bookshelf. From his vantage point, he can barely see Joe’s expression, even through his binoculars. But he knows that it’s contemplative, calm, pleased; the look Nicky remembers from when he’d come into Joe’s apartment to find him rearranging the same shelves by a new metric known only to him. There’s a record playing, Nicky couldn’t see which one he put on. Joe bobs his head to the beat of the music.

He knows this is stupid. He knows this is one of the worst ideas he’s ever had. But he can’t help himself. Tracking Joe down in Malta had been easy, so easy Nicky would know that he’s out, he’s a civilian again, even without the confirmation that his chip was removed and destroyed. His heart seizes when he thinks about how Joe’s company still hasn’t been able to kick them out of the system. Joe’s encryption key did in fact give them full access. A job well done, really. If only it hadn’t led to this.

“This is a bad idea.” Nicky would almost think the voice is in his own head if his chip didn’t send a ping on Andy’s location at the same time. She’s practically on top of him, but Nicky still doesn’t notice when the proximity sensors automatically switch off his in-ear. “You shouldn’t be here.” Nicky doesn’t lower his binoculars.

“I know,” he says. Andy comes over and sits next to him. Joe has moved on to a box of canvases.

“Nicky,” she says. “You’re just putting him in danger.”

“I know,” Nicky repeats, irritated.

He’s thought about that, of course he has. She called their team off because Joe left, because he posed no more threat. But if this becomes a distraction to Nicky, if she suspects (and Nicky knows himself well enough to know she’d be right to suspect) that Nicky might one day be unable to resist approaching, she won’t hesitate to bring them back on and neither of them want to deal with the clean up and paperwork after Nicky takes them out. They don’t have endless resources that he can keep killing members of his own company. Sooner or later it’ll be him they come for. It’s a testament to their friendship that Andy is here, not just a tell-tale red dot between Nicky’s eyes.

“I’m still on vacation,” he reminds her.

“This isn’t forgetting him,” she replies. They fall silent and she watches him watch Joe.

Joe pulls a canvas from the box. It’s streaked in dozens of shades of green, random lines that mean nothing. There’s a swath at the bottom, all one shade, and Nicky knows that it’s laid on thick. He remembers it took over a day to dry. (He’d kept touching it, tiny indents in the paint that bear, dangerously, remnants of his fingerprints. Joe had laughed at him and dragged him away, but he’d kept the canvas hanging in his studio and called it his favorite painting.) Joe pauses on the canvas. His back is turned to the window and Nicky can’t even guess at his expression. After a moment he moves to put it in one of the trash bags in the corner. Nicky wants to scream.

Joe stops, though, looking at the canvas again. He moves away from the trash bags. He props it against the doorway to his bedroom and even as small as he is in Nicky’s view, he can tell Joe is confused by the urge to keep it. Nicky pretends he can breathe normally, but knows Andy can hear the tremor on the exhale.

“Andy,” he says. “Is it possible anything sticks after the chip comes out?”

“You know it’s not,” she says quietly. “You don’t even exist to him.”

“You don’t know that,” Nicky says.

“ _ You _ do,” she says. And Nicky finally puts down the binoculars and turns to her.

“I want something to still be there,” he admits. Her eyes are sympathetic in the low light. She puts a hand on his knee.

“The point is that agents forget everything when the chip is removed. You know there’s only ever been a handful of glitches. And you know how they’re handled. It’s better this way.”

“He was going to go through with that,” Nicky says. It’s the first time he’s acknowledged it out loud, when he’s awake and conscious and sober, and it sinks so deeply into his bones that he  _ aches _ with it. “He was going to go through with forgetting everything about me just to  _ be  _ with me.” He’s not even startled anymore to feel tears on his cheeks. Andy squeezes his knee.

“I warned you,” she says quietly. It’s not malicious, it’s not intended to hurt, but it does. Of course it does. “I could see you getting too deep and I warned you. I never wanted it to go this way, Nicky, you know that.”

“Why are you here, Andy?” he asks. He hates that he’s missed seeing Joe for any length of time, but he wants her to leave before he looks again. Andy holds up the file Nicky didn’t even notice she had.

“I had to pull a lot of strings for this,” she says. Nicky takes it and flips it open.

It’s customary to give an agent a completely new identity when they leave. Nicky’s done enough of the leg work putting these sorts of files together to know that any current and former identities an agent took on were to be destroyed or formally deceased before the file even went before the Board for approval. Nicky wonders if the Board has ever seen this. Because it’s his own name, his own birth date and hometown, his parents' names listed just as they are on his real birth certificate, long since logged in the company archives. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity. If Nicky turns it down now, he’ll never have a chance to be Nicolò DiGenova again.

“I won’t ever see you again,” Nicky whispers.

“No,” Andy agrees, and she’s begun to sound properly mournful.

“Or Nile,” Nicky continues.

“No,” Andy says again.

“You’re the only family I have left,” Nicky says. When he looks up he thinks there might be tears in her eyes.

“It’s your choice,” she says. Her voice is steady. “I can’t do this again, you know that.” She doesn’t just mean the file. (After Quynh, after Lykon, after Booker. She’s let so many of them go.)

Andy’s hand cups his chin. She tilts his face back up to meet her eyes. She brushes a thumb over his birthmark. She’s smiling, just a little.

“You’re the best, Nicolò, you always were. I’ll be sorry to lose you,” she says. “Sleep on it. The plane will be waiting when your vacation is over. All you have to do is tell the pilot where to go: back home, or to the lab.” Nicky nods. Andy leans forward and presses her lips to his forehead.

“I won’t insult you by saying goodbye,” Nicky says. His voice is strangled, the tears falling faster now.

“Don’t you dare,” she says. “I’ll see you soon.” She touches his birthmark one more time and takes in the sight of him for a long minute before she finally turns to leave.

“I love you, too, Andy,” he murmurs, just before the proximity sensors track her out of range. He’s not sure if she hears it, but it takes a second longer than he expects for his in-ear to switch back on.

He looks back down at the file. There’s pictures that will be put in frames, pictures of his parents (real, honest pictures of the people who would have raised him, faded in their age, more authentic than he’s ever seen) and people he assumes would be his adoptive parents (obviously new prints, probably created by Nile because if too many people knew about this it wouldn’t be in his lap right now), and resumes and CVs that could get him any number of jobs. The address listed — the one he would wake up at with no memory of this job, this company, this entire experience —is here in Malta, not far from the beach, because even if Andy didn’t have his location she could track down Joe just as easily and she’s making a point as much as giving him an opportunity. And there’s a note. It’s scrawled in Andy’s own hand, something he knows he’ll only see this once.

_ If you do remember, do me a favor and look up the others. Just to see. Please. _

He picks up his binoculars again. The plane will be on the airstrip at 0800 Sunday morning. He has less than 48 hours left.


	3. Beginnings

Malta suits Nicky. It’s much further South than his hometown in Genoa, but it’s the same sea he recognizes from his childhood and something about that is deeply comforting. He owns a sailboat that he can take out on the ocean so he can keep up that old skill he’s always enjoyed. His house is small, less than a mile from the docks where he parks the boat. Certain unkind people might call it quaint, but it’s the perfect size for one person and he loves the way the sea air permeates every crevice, and the way sand always seems to just appear in the corners if he doesn’t sweep every other day. 

He teaches to pay his bills. English and Italian at the nearby secondary school and private sailing lessons on the weekends. His students like him, at least they never seem to openly resent him, and he absolutely loves his job. He’s not sure he ever really thought he’d be a teacher, but now he can’t imagine he was ever inclined to do anything else. His coworkers are mostly wonderful (no one likes the European History teacher, but even still the woman is mostly alright to work with if you can avoid her probing questions about your personal life and never get caught in a debate over monarchies with her). They help him learn Maltese as he muddles his way through various crash courses to be on a level with his own students, but are always willing to carry on conversations in English or Italian if it’s been a long day.

He makes friends easily and they go out for drinks when they can. Two of his friends have children and he’s become Uncle Nicky more quickly than he ever thought he would, it thrills him a little every time he hears it. He never had a huge desire to have kids of his own, but he’s begun to think it might be nice if he can find the right guy. He babysits often and the guest room in his house becomes almost permanently marked by the little indications of small children spending their time. They all get together a few times a year to have a massive dinner at someone’s home. Nicky’s house is the smallest, but the backyard is expansive and he spends months putting in a beautiful patio with a long dining table and a charcoal grill. It’s entirely worth it when it’s finished. They celebrate his 32nd birthday on that patio and it’s the first time he gets to host.

His friends offer to set him up and encourage him to try online dating, but Nicky assures them he doesn’t want help in that area. He’s in no rush to enter into a relationship and there’s plenty of other men who are only looking for something casual to pass the time. He goes on dates, most of them successful, and sometimes he stays with a guy for a couple months (most of which they, admittedly, spend in bed more than anything else) but eventually he or they will move on with no hard feelings. It’s easy and painless. It works for now.

He doesn’t tell his friends about the deep, cold ache in his chest. He’s not sure he can explain it. There was something there, once, he knows, but he can’t for the life of him remember what it was. All he knows is that he lost it and nothing was left behind but this dark pit that he doesn’t look too closely at. Sometimes he thinks he might remember that he hurt someone — maybe years or decades ago, it feels very distant but very close at the same time — but the thought is always fleeting, slipping in and out of his head when he’s drifting to sleep and feeling more like a dream than anything else. What matters is, he’s not looking for something to fill that hole. Not yet, at least. It feels wrong. He nudges at the edges of that ache, like poking a bruise while it’s still purple just to feel the echoes of pain, and he thinks he wants to feel it a little longer. He can’t explain why anymore than he can explain where it comes from, but he turns down the offers at blind dates or help with a dating profile and promises his friends he’s not lonely.

* * *

It’s a fairly unremarkable afternoon. He’s grading papers on the docks between sailing lessons, his boat bobbing gently in the corner of his vision. The shrieks and laughter of beach-goers mingle with the calls of seabirds and the wash of ocean waves. It’s not the best day for sailing, barely more than a breeze across the waters, but he’s got obligations so here he is. He has a stack of finished papers kept in place under a rock just in front of him. His bag is barely steps away on his boat, but he doesn’t feel like getting up to put the papers away. The sun is warm on the back of his neck and he’s finally found a comfortable position in the folding chair he’s using. He doesn’t register the man coming towards him until his papers are scattered across the dock.

“Shit!” The voice is vaguely familiar, but Nicky doesn’t think too much of it. He lives in a fairly tight neighborhood so he usually recognizes the voices of his neighbors even if he hasn’t met them properly more than a few times. He focuses on chasing down a few pages before they flutter into the water. The man holds out the stack he managed to catch and when Nicky meets his apologetic eyes something sparks, something like recognition.

_ I know you _ .

The thought is gone so quickly he only registers the echo of it.

_ Don’t I? _

“Sorry,” the man says, handing over the papers. “I wasn’t even watching where I was going.”

“It’s alright,” Nicky says, smiling. “My fault for leaving them just sitting there. I knew I should have put them away.” He takes the stack and goes over to his boat to do just that.

“No,” the man says, “I should’ve been paying attention. It’s not like you left them in the middle of the walkway.” He looks so sheepish Nicky can’t help but tease.

“You probably shouldn’t have been running on the docks, either,” he says. “It’s very dangerous, you know.” The man laughs and Nicky feels the empty place in his chest come to life for no discernible reason at all.

“Of course,” the man says seriously, “it was very reckless of me.” They smile at each other for a minute before the man suddenly sticks out a hand.

“Joe Al-Kaysani,” he says. Nicky grasps his hand and that spark flickers again.

_ I  _ **_know_ ** _ you. _

“Nicolò DiGenova,” he says. The man — Joe — smiles wider.

“Nicolò,” he says and Nicky tries not to react to the thrill that sends through him. Plenty of people have said his name before. Joe continues like he doesn’t notice at all, “This may be a bit forward, but has anyone ever told you, you have the most incredible eyes.”

Nicky tries very hard not to blush. It’s not like he didn’t notice immediately that Joe is extremely handsome. His dark curls are stiff with the sea salt air, but their tousled appearance lends a carefree charm to his look. His beard is trimmed neatly and Nicky wants to run his fingers through it so badly they nearly tingle with the imagined sensation. His eyes dance in the sun and the deep lines around them speak of easy smiles and quick laughter. The linen shirt he’s wearing is open, revealing a beautifully toned chest that Nicky will absolutely be dreaming of for weeks. He keeps his eyes on Joe’s, though, when he answers.

“I can’t imagine anyone would find that forward at all,” he says, sarcastic but pleased. Joe laughs and that empty ache surges up again.

“I find it’s best to note beauty as soon as one sees it, to recognize it before it fades,” he says.

“Ah, so you are already thinking of how my eyes will look when they fade,” Nicky says. “How grim.” Joe laughs again, shaking his head.

“Do you always make it so difficult to flirt with you?” he asks. “Or was I mistaken in the direction of your eyes?” He’s teasing now, crossing his arms to subtly flex the muscles of his shoulders and no, he most certainly would not be mistaken in the direction of Nicky’s eyes.

“Maybe I’m just shocked at your boldness, kicking my papers across the dock and then immediately trying to chat me up,” Nicky says.

“Can you blame me?” Joe says smoothly. Nicky honestly has no answer for that, but he tries to hide his smile by looking out over the water.

“So do you normally wander the docks looking for dates, or is this a special occasion?” Nicky asks instead of replying.

“A very special occasion,” Joe says, and he makes sure Nicky sees the way he eyes him. Nicky stands a little straighter. “So how about it?” Nicky can see his next student pulling up now and he still has three classes worth of assignments to grade. He should’ve had them done yesterday, but he’s terrible with deadlines. Still, Joe looks so hopeful he hears himself speak before he can think about it.

“I’ll be done here at 5:30,” he says. Joe beams.

“I’ll be back at 5:30, then,” he says. Nicky can’t help his own smile. “See you then, Nicolò.” And then he’s walking back down the dock, whistling, and Nicky’s heart is doing something truly pathetic in his chest, and his student is giving him a salacious look like she knows exactly what’s going through his head. Well, not like it’s hard, he can’t take his eyes off Joe’s ass.

Joe picks him up on foot (shirt, most unfortunately, buttoned up) and they eat at one of Nicky’s favorite restaurants, outside under the sunset. There’s music softly piping through the speakers, an American song Nicky doesn’t realize he knows until he’s humming under his breath as he looks over the menu. They agree on a bottle of wine to share and something about Joe pouring him a glass shakes that familiar knowing in him again. Nicky rolls the stem of his glass between his fingers. An old friend used to mutter  _ déjà vu _ under his breath and Nicky thinks he must’ve laughed because you can’t have already seen something that’s entirely new. (The memory is faded and frayed, worn so thin Nicky isn’t sure he didn’t make it up.)

“What do you do?” Nicky asks, putting the thought aside.

“I’m an artist,” Joe says. “I mostly draw, but I’ve dabbled in painting. You’re a teacher?”

“Yes,” Nicky says. Joe’s smile turns teasing.

“So I suppose you have a curfew for school nights?” he says. Nicky smiles and sips his wine.

“Sometimes I can make exceptions,” he says. “What do you draw?”

“Mostly portraits,” Joe says, and something in his eye goes distant and perhaps haunted. It’s gone in moments and he focuses on Nicky again. “You’ve got a good profile for drawing, you know.”

“Is the part where I ask you to draw me like one of your French girls?” Nicky asks. Joe laughs.

“I leave that choice entirely up to you,” he says. Nicky takes another sip of wine to hide the blush on his cheeks.

“I’ve never been drawn before,” he says.

“Really?” Joe asks, sounding surprised. “You’re very... distinctive.” The way he says it, slow and careful, sounds like he means a different word entirely.

“So only my eyes are the beautiful part?” Nicky asks. Joe’s smile crinkles his eyes and he leans a little closer across the table.

“Making things difficult again?” he says. He continues in flowing Italian, in the same dialect of Nicky’s home, “Every part of you is the beautiful part, Nicolò.” And Nicky is breathless.

Nicky can’t pretend that it’s only the wine and the balmy autumn night that make him warm as he sits with Joe.  _ Déjà vu  _ he hears again and again, that nudge of a memory that comes from nowhere and everywhere all at once. Already seen. Already seen the way the strings of lights send beads of gold through Joe’s curls. Already seen the way his eyes go bright and thrilled when he speaks about art. Already seen the way his fingers tear at the edges of his napkin and trail up and down the stem of his glass while Nicky goes off on a rant he barely hears himself. (Already hoping to see again, again, and again.) But as the night grows later, Nicky dismisses the thought. He is sure he would’ve remembered a man like Joe if they had ever met before.

“Let me walk you home,” Joe offers when they reach the street.

“Do you live far?” Nicky asks. “I don’t want you to go out of your way.” Innocent enough, he thinks, when he’s not really going to turn down more of Joe’s company.

“I’d like you to finish your thoughts on Verne, actually, so I don’t really care how far out of my way it is,” Joe says. Nicky chuckles a bit because his thoughts on Verne clearly do not line up with Joe’s and until they paused to pay the bill it had been getting a little heated.

“You just want to see where I live so you can sneak in and burn my copy of  _ Paradise Lost _ ,” Nicky says, but he turns toward his house.

“No one in their right mind enjoys  _ Paradise Lost _ ,” Joe says. “But I am willing to look past it in your case. Your views on  _ 20000 Leagues Under the Sea _ , however…”

“I will not compromise my opinions just because you bat your eyes at me,” Nicky says. Joe gasps, mock offended.

“I would never stoop to such cheap tactics,” he says. “Unless they were working.” His smile turns sly and Nicky has to look away to hide his blush.

“Absolutely not,” he says.

It’s a short walk and a warm night and Nicky is pleasantly full of good food and good wine. He pretends all the way up to his doorstep that the night will end a perfectly reasonable hour. But as they stand on his front porch, he knows his mind is made up. Joe’s gaze is enthralling and more than that is the bone-deep knowledge that  _ something _ here exists, that all Nicky has to do is reach out and take it, and that when he does there will be no going back. As much as he tells himself he wants to linger in his phantom heartbreak a little longer, he cannot pretend he’s felt even a twinge of it all night. And maybe that’s why he invites Joe inside.

It takes less than a second, a breath, a heartbeat for Joe to slide into his space, for Nicky to reform around his presence there and kiss him, kiss him,  _ kiss  _ him. He knows his house well enough to blindly guide them to his bed. He loses himself in a feeling he thinks he should recognize as Joe gentles him back onto the sheets, as he hitches Nicky’s leg around his waist and curls his fingers in Nicky’s body. There’s a flame burning from the inside out, something all-consuming and suffocating in the best way, a passion Joe coaxes up that’s been missing in every other encounter with every other man. And Nicky’s breath catches as Joe takes him apart, learning his body so quickly it’s as if he’s been here before and is simply reacquainting himself with the landscape.

When Joe slides home, all Nicky knows is how they fit together so effortlessly, so seamlessly, how he can almost remember the syllables of Joe’s name on his tongue like he’s said them thousands of times before.

“Yusuf,” he gasps between kisses that taste like a homecoming, hitching his hips into it, trying to get him incrementally deeper. “Yusuf, please.” And Joe doesn't correct him as he pulls out to thrust back in, slow and devastating.

“Nicky,” Joe whispers, quiet and intimate in his ear. And Nicky doesn't think he ever told Joe that people call him that. But then Joe pulls out again and Nicky can’t think at all.

They lie in the sheets together after, trading slow, lazy kisses. It feels familiar in that same unexplainable way. Nicky never wants to leave this moment. At some point he manages to get up, walking a bit unsteadily because he still can’t properly feel his legs, and finds a washcloth. Joe chuckles quietly at his movements and Nicky throws the damp cloth on his face. He collapses back on the bed and Joe takes care of cleaning them up. He tosses the washcloth in the general direction of Nicky’s hamper and drapes himself across Nicky’s chest. He folds his hands over Nicky’s sternum and rests his chin on them, eyes closed contentedly. Nicky pushes a hand through his curls and Joe hums.

He lets his head fall back into the pillows, looking up at the ceiling as he absently scratches along Joe’s scalp. Joe is practically purring, pushing up into his hands.  _ I’ve been here before _ , Nicky thinks, the nudging idle musing that’s lingered there in the back of his mind, refusing to be ignored, right alongside that thought that keeps escaping him whenever he grasps for it.

_ I know  _ **_you_ ** _. _

“Interesting necklace,” Joe says after a time, lifting the pendant to inspect it. Nicky is pulled from his own head and he looks down to meet Joe’s eyes.

“Thank you,” he says. “Someone gave it to me.”

It’s an automatic response, one he’s given many times before. For the first time he thinks to wonder  _ who. _ It wasn’t his parents, he knows that. He doesn’t recall any serious boyfriends who would have given him a piece of jewelry, nor any friends. It’s not even really something he considers his style. But he’s always had it and he never takes it off. It’s important.

Joe is watching him as he turns the pendant over in his fingers. He runs his thumb over the engraving on it then brings it closer to inspect it. His brow furrows, just like everyone else who asks what the symbols and letters mean. Nicky has no good answer, that’s just what’s there.

“They must have been very important to you,” Joe says. Nicky isn’t sure what makes him say that, but he nods. It feels true. Joe lets it drop back to Nicky’s chest. It’s warm from his fingers. Joe folds his hands as they were and goes back to resting his chin on them.

“You seem very far away,” he says softly. It’s not meant to be prying, just a statement of fact. Nicky swallows. His throat is suddenly tight and he doesn’t know why.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Lost in memories, I guess.” Joe pushes up to his elbows to hover over him slightly.

“Good ones?” he asks. Nicky’s never been a very good liar so he doesn’t try.

“I’m not sure,” he admits. Joe frowns slightly, holds his weight on one arm and reaches out a hand. He touches his finger against the corner of Nicky’s eye and it comes away wet.

“I’m sorry I brought it up,” Joe says. Nicky shakes his head.

“It’s not that,” he says even though he’s not sure if that’s true or not. He reaches up to pull Joe down and kisses him. Joe melts into it and the wave of emotions in Nicky’s chest settles.

It’s late and Nicky has to be up early for school tomorrow. He never did finish his grading, but he’ll skip assigning homework on Monday so he can catch up. The kids definitely won’t mind. Nicky doesn’t ask Joe to stay, and Joe doesn’t ask if he should leave, and they somehow end up spooned together, Joe’s arms around Nicky and their legs tangled. It’s automatic, easy as breathing, and Nicky thinks he should question it, but he is tired, fading fast, and he simply can’t find it in him to wonder when it’s a comfort he hadn’t known he was ever missing.

That same fleeting thought that’s circled his head all night, echoing with every breath against Joe’s skin, every touch point where their hands and fingers met, flickers through his mind as he drifts off, curled safe and warm against Joe’s front.

_ I know you. I  _ **_know_ ** _ I know you _ .

He’s nearly asleep when Joe speaks, so softly he could be imagining it. Barely any sound, barely more than a brush of his lips and a warm breath on the knob of his spine. It already feels like a dream he may not remember.

“I missed you.”

* * *

_ His name is Nicolò DiGenova. _

_ He is kind — more kind than you could ever dream of being — forgiving and honest and in possession of the truest heart you have ever known. Even when he is angry he strives for fairness, finds the reasoning behind every fight you have and explains himself when he lashes out. He is always so quick to forgive, sometimes before you even have to apologize (but you do anyway because he deserves to hear it, and he apologizes to you whenever he thinks he needs to and you realize it’s so easy for him to forgive because you know before he’s said the words that you will forgive him too, you will forgive him anything at all). _

_ When you met his favorite food was farinata. He baked you batch after batch, proclaiming its simplicity is the reason it’s unmatched in flavor _ .  _ After you feed him Tunisian tagine he swears it’s his new favorite and he’ll never go back. (It’s not even good, when you first let him try it. It’s not your mother’s recipe, you had to look it up. And you burnt it slightly, went too light on some of the best seasonings. The next time you make it, it’s nearly perfect and he eats all of it in one sitting and he swears he would spend all day thanking you very thoroughly if he wasn’t already regretting that last bite. You laugh at him and remind him you recommended he stop at some point, but it’s not like you needed the sex to know how grateful he is.) _

_ His favorite color is green. But a very specific green. The shade of moss in the midday when the wisps of a cloud pass in front of the sun. (And one day you sit in your studio with him all wrapped around you and you mix green after green after green until you swipe the paintbrush across the canvas and he laughs suddenly and kisses your neck and says “that’s the one, that’s it exactly.” And you push him down to the floor and drag that green down his chest, his arms, up that perfect column of his neck until he is breathless from it all, from the laughter and the joy, and then you have him right there on the floor of your studio and he tells you all the next day how the ache in his back is completely worth it. You don’t remember what colors you mixed to get that shade of green, but the canvas hangs in your studio and you find him in there often, just looking at it.) _

_ He doesn’t have a favorite song. He listens to music endlessly, knows more about it than you could ever dream of knowing, knows all the terms and theory that mean nothing to you but are clearly so important to him. You asked him once if he studied it in school and he said it was simply an interest that he took a little too seriously and taught himself. He doesn’t have a favorite song but he has fixations, songs that loop endlessly in his mind until he plays them nonstop for days, even months, on end. (The song he is fixated on when he explains this is “My Way” by Sinatra and you spend the afternoon digging out your old record player and cleaning it off so you can play the song over and over at dinner. It doesn’t matter that you have to get up every three minutes to reset the needle so he can hear it again, it’s worth it for the look in his eyes every time you sit back down and to be able to hear him humming along under his breath as he eats.) _

_ His favorite book is “Paradise Lost” and you hate him a little for it because you’ve never been able to slog through more than five pages of that thing before giving up. But you read it for him. (When you throw the beat up old paperback that you picked up years ago at a garage sale on his chest one evening he laughs and says you didn’t have to read it for him, he never expects anyone to read it just to talk about it with him. But he read “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea” for you — in the original French, too, despite barely remembering his French lessons in school because you insist the translation just doesn’t do the story justice — just so he could discuss the most minute detail with you and agree with your dissections of the on-screen adaptations, so of course you were going to drag through “Paradise Lost” for him. You never end up properly discussing it with him, but you relish his lectures on it and at least now you can follow along a little better, if only to hum and nod in the right places.) _

_ He has absolutely no critique for your poetry. It’s good on the days when you’re feeling particularly touchy about things you’ve written, he says it’s beautiful no matter what. It’s not at all helpful when you need to find that specific word that’s on the tip of your tongue. He knows better than to attempt and sits there with his nose in a book so you can’t see him laughing at you. (Sometimes he offers a word or phrase that he  _ _ knows _ _ isn’t what you want and you throw your pencil at him. He catches it every time and laughs. The first time you hear him laugh is when he offers you help on your poetry. As soon as you hear it new words flow and you speak them without thought. His eyes shine like sunlight on water and you never want to look away. It’s another day in your studio, you alone because he hasn’t yet been invited in, where you mix every blue you can imagine to try to match his eyes. You never get it right and the canvas ends up in your scrap pile before he ever sees it. You think you might have come on too strong. He asks you later, though, to repeat what you said and he’s disappointed when you admit you can’t remember exactly. After that, you write down every word of poetry that comes to mind when you think of him. You fill pages upon pages.) _

_ He teaches you Italian. Maybe you’ve forgotten that, too. He insists, though. He  _ _ hates _ _ the English language and before you’ve barely learnt a few phrases in a somewhat passable accent, he’s speaking to you almost exclusively in Italian and you are helpless to it. You follow along with what you can and ask him to translate what you can’t and in return you teach him Arabic. He’s absolutely atrocious, but then, Arabic is much more difficult to learn and he’s earnest in his attempts so it is impossible to hold it against him. (His speaking is terrible, but he learns to read and write much faster than you expect. He asks you to show him how both your names are written. He practices the lines over and over until it’s as easy as breathing for him to write Nicolò and Yusuf on everything. One night he scrawls his name across your palm in Sharpie when you fall asleep in front of the TV and it takes days to wash out fully. You are sad to see the last remnants scrub away.) _

_ He is an orphan. His parents died before he could remember them, but he has pictures somewhere. The way he tells it, he didn’t luck out as a baby and by the time he was old enough to carry out his own adoption interviews no one wanted the too quiet, too strange little boy who had no interest in the things other little boys liked, who just wanted to read and listen to music and observe the world around him. (He sounds mournful, missing a family that should have loved him, and you pull him in close and hold him tightly because he deserved love, he  _ _ still _ _ deserves love and you do. You love him. You don’t tell him then, it’s not the right time. He’s processing something else and you don’t interrupt. But you feel it. For the first time, you know you love him. He kisses you like he knows what you’re thinking and even if he doesn’t say it either, not for a while yet, it’s there in the curve of his smile and your heart feels like it’s fled your body to live in his.) _

_ He is beautiful down to his very soul. He buys you tortillons before you even notice you’ve run low. He grows fresh mint for you because he’s much better at plant care and you miss having fresh mint tea. He carries spiders out the windows and makes sure the corners of his apartment are cobweb free whenever you come over. He knows precisely when you need to be held for hours in silence, and when it’s better to give you a firm kiss on the back of the neck and talk about something inane until you’re feeling more like yourself. He reads to you, sometimes whatever he’s in the middle of, sometimes books of poetry he thinks you’ll like (you always do). He makes love like it’s art and plays your body like an instrument and you will never know a sweeter ecstasy than falling apart in his arms. _

_ He loves you. You don’t remember now, but you will.  _ _ He loves you. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes on this verse that I touched on but wanna explain more because I put unnecessary thought into this so you get to know, too:
> 
> Intelligence has been privatized which is why there’s multiple companies with spies running around. (Why did everyone but Joe end up at Andy’s company? Man idk! Plot reasons!!)
> 
> Agents are all implanted with a neural microchip that links into the memory center of the brain to record their mission logs direct from subject, less likely they’ll forget important pieces of information and saves on precious time writing up reports. This tech was invented years ago at this point and is standard for all intelligence agents. They also have an implanted in-ear hearing device so their handlers or other agents can speak to them discreetly. When an agent retires both these things are removed. The microchip being connected to the memory centers in the brain means when it comes out the agent loses the memories from when they had the chip in and some false memories will be implanted so when the agent wakes up from surgery they have a life to return to as if nothing happened at all. The company will set up their new identity and new life while the agent is in an induced coma for recovery and usually the agent will wake up with some memories of moving to a new city and getting ready to start a new job. (Like I said, look away from the neuroscience. Idc if this is wrong, it's for the PLOT.)
> 
> Vague timeline: Nicky and Joe are together for 10 months, Joe gets his chip out directly after the betrayal and Nicky returns to his company HQ to lay low, after a month or so Andy deems it safe enough for him to go on vacation cuz Joe's company doesn't seem to be coming after him, so Joe is out of recovery and just moving into his house in Malta about two months later when Nicky tracks him down, Nicky gets his chip out instead of going back to work, he's in Malta for about a year before they meet again


End file.
